Dead Onn
by ardavenport
Summary: Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan and other Jedi attend the funeral of a both great and lowly person.
1. Chapter 1

**DEAD ONN**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 1**

The skies of Coruscant were clear and sunny.

On purpose.

On a planet with every bit of surface area covered with truly galactic-scale urbanization, weather was no accident. It was outlined, evaluated, planned and focus-grouped by several fractious committees before making it's debut in the planetary atmosphere.

As a result Coruscant residents had nothing to make neutral small talk with. While the inhabitants of other lesser Republic worlds could always count on breaking their long silences with a cheery, "Ooooh, it's cold outside, isn't it?" or a marginally sincere, "Beautiful day, isn't it?" the Courscanti had to settle for topics that could be blamed on someone else, like the food or lack of brain cells on the hemispheric weather committee.

So, the various dignitaries on the Senate VIP landing platform only mumbled about business or the traffic or their last meals. Except for the six brown-robed figures standing silently among them.

They said nothing. They were Jedi, and Jedi were just like that. Mysterious and stoic. Quite a lot of citizens regarded them with awe and respect. Others just thought they were pretentious, especially since their Temple occupied some of the most valuable real estate on Coruscant. It was a huge, ugly gray bunker with five tall spires rising up over the whole structure like candles on a giant, pyramidal cake. But no matter how much a blight on the skyline it was, or how many building codes it violated or how desirable the location, no city bureaucrat or real estate mogul could do a thing about it since it had been there before the city.

A ponderous, fat transport rumbled toward them, finally coming to a stop at their platform. Smartly dressed crew and polished droids formed a line to usher the dignitaries aboard, the Jedi among them.

One happy crew member with a plastoid smile on his face ushered the Jedi through the impracticably grand passageways of the VIP hyperspace transport. Only after the door slid closed on their suite did one of the robed Jedi push the hood back off his head. The others immediately did the same.

"Hmm," Master Qui-Gon Jinn commented about their stately accommodations, his bearded, Human expression thoughtful. They had a plushly furnished main room with two smaller attached parlors, a service alcove and droid. However since suites of this size had been assigned to each of the other dignitaries, relatively speaking, the six Jedi were traveling economy class.

Master Zamtoe crossed to the wide view ports. His enormous, hulking Padawan dutifully followed. The ship began to rise up into the atmosphere. Zamtoe watched the sky change from perfect, pre-planned blue to violet and then star-flecked black. Master Zamtoe had not been off-world in years, so he thoroughly enjoyed re-acquainting himself with space travel.

Zamtoe, blue and bald and cheerfully middle-aged (for his species; he was nearly 100 standard years), turned around and almost collided into his Padawan's stomach. Enling had been watching space go by over his head. Zamtoe gulped, as he often did, at their size differential. Enling had been much smaller when he had adopted the youngling as his apprentice less than two years ago. But Zamtoe's choice had been guided by the will of the Force, with no consideration for the expected height potential of an adult Basalog, and Enling had recently hit a growth spurt. Zamtoe supposed that it could not be any worse for him than for any of the other smaller Jedi Masters. He had already received much sage wisdom from Master Yoda about how not to be sat or stepped on.

The other Jedi in their group had settled in on the bulging sofas in the sitting area. Designed to accommodate multiple species, the furnishings were mostly colorful, cushioned blobs that could form themselves to nearly any body type and number of appendages. Zamtoe and Enling joined them.

Feeling conspicuous, Enling gingerly took his place next to Master Zamtoe and folded his two upper pairs of arms before him and let his two lower pair of arms rest on his legs. He was the youngest member of the group by many years. The only other apprentice on this trip, Qui-Gon Jinn's Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, was an adult over twenty standard years. Both Jinn and Kenobi were experienced Jedi with many years of important missions to their credit.

The others were senior Masters, including his own. Among them was Master Minee who was an instructor in Force studies for younger Initiates. Though it had been years since Enling had attended her classes, he still felt uncomfortable, traveling on a mission with her. This was Enling's first real mission, simple as it was.

They were going to attend a funeral.

"I have not been to Molek Minor since our mission there," Master Boraku, the eldest of the group, said and nodded to Master Zamtoe and Master Minee.

"I haven't been anywhere in years," Zamtoe slowly shook his blue head. "But I had to come to Salabatio's final rites. He was a great being in his time. And he loved life. His passing is a great loss to his world."

Hearing Zamtoe's sighing adulation, Obi-Wan Kenobi grimaced. Young and clean-shaven and dimple-chinned, his displeasure was obvious to anyone looking at him and his Master rewarded this lapse with a brief scowl. No one else among the other senior Masters noticed. Minee, Boraku and Zamtoe had all been younger Knights when Salabatio Onn had stopped a war single-handedly on Molek Minor and became the hero of his world.

The first time Obi-Wan Kenobi had ever encountered Salabatio Onn, less than two years ago, he was vomiting in a public gutter at Qui-Gon Jinn's feet. That mission had gone downhill from there.

Back then, while Obi-Wan had tried to gently disengage them from the scrawny vagabond in ragged scholar's robes, Qui-Gon, always a soft touch for homeless oddities, had been benevolent to 'Salabatio', who introduced himself with a flourish and a waft of body odor. After that they could not get rid of him. Qui-Gon hardly tried. But he had salved his Padawan's outrage a bit by allowing Obi-Wan to forcibly wash off the worst grime and excrement from their new companion in a public fountain. Salabatio had alternately cursed and broken out into song between dunkings.

It had been true that they benefitted from having a native guide to scout out a defensible location for their negotiations amidst the hostile territory of the worst, most unpleasant parts of the primary city on Molek Minor. But Onn came with his own assortment of vices and unsavory habits. The very first time they sat down to eat together, Onn had shocked even Qui-Gon by swiftly consuming more poisonous intoxicants than even a Jedi could metabolize.

"Just a little pick-me-up to help the digestion," he had explained of the illegal substances concealed in his dingy orange robes. Then he had ordered strong drink to go with the meal that Qui-Gon was paying for.

Now, less than two standard years later, Obi-Wan was accompanying his Master to Salabatio Onn's funeral rites. The only surprise for young Obi-Wan was that Salabatio had not been murdered by his own sorely abused and polluted internal organs. Salabatio had instead managed to get himself killed in a street argument punctuated with blaster fire. Supposedly he had been in the midst of some heroic act, but Obi-Wan did not think that the holo-net obits that failed to mention Salabatio's various addictions, public outbursts and random vandalisms could be trusted to be accurate about the cause of death.

On the other sofa, Enling listened with rapt attention to Master Minee's account of Salabatio Onn, unarmed, climbing atop an armed battle pod and jamming a metal rod into it's droid brain. And then he delivered an impassioned sermon to the combatants around him that completely disarmed the fight, on the field of battle and in orbit around the planet.

Obi-Wan knew that this story was true. It just wasn't complete as far as Salabatio Onn's whole life was concerned. Onn's devotion to non-violence was total. He would never raise a hand to another being, not even to defend himself. But this devotion curiously did not exclude insulting people and starting fights, especially in bars. More than once, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had come to Onn's defense, only to be soundly rebuked by him. Onn disdained all weapons. Blasters, shivs, heavy implements, attack droids and lightsabers were all the same to him, no matter what their use.

More than once on that mission, Obi-Wan had questioned his Master about the value of Onn's *guidance when compared to the trouble he caused. But Qui-Gon had stubbornly clung to his conviction that he 'sensed' that Onn had a role to play. Obi-Wan suspected that his Master's conviction had more to do with not wanting to admit that his instincts could be wrong.

At the climax of their mission, Salabatio Onn had escaped Qui-Gon's frantic grab and leaped into the midst of a combustible mix of enemy diplomats with a loud string of invectives and insults. Obi-Wan had been shocked when everyone at the negotiating table had cringed back as if their childhood nannies had emerged from their pasts to scold them for not putting their toys away. Salabatio Onn, his past revealed, had known them all down to their embarrassing personal habits. A settlement had been reached quickly, with Molek Minor's fallen and now risen planetary hero presiding. Qui-Gon Jinn had been smug about the outcome for quite some time afterwards.

"Do we participate in the ceremony?" Enling asked his Master. Enling, who was much taller than everyone else, including Master Qui-Gon, had a shockingly young and immature voice.

"I'm not sure. It wasn't clear to me from the invitation." Zamtoe looked to the others, but no one really knew anything other than the time and place where they were supposed to show up. After some speculation about the general nature of Moleki funeral rites the Jedi decided that it was unlikely that their participation would be required, but they would be mindful of the possibility. They then settled into their individual silences.

They each had their own style of silence. Qui-Gon went for the standard majestic Jedi Master in repose. Obi-Wan just copied what Qui-Gon did, which was merely a tenor version of 'not nearly so majestic as the guy sitting next to me.'

Boraku, whose robe and tunic were only half as wrinkled as her gray, hairless skin, sat unnaturally still and looked a bit like something that might be found decaying in a museum. She had been mistaken for a statue on a few occasions in the Temple gardens.

Minee was all business with a touch of un-Jedi-like tension about the lips. One could see just by looking at her that whatever she meditated on was important and was not to be interrupted unless your business was Really Important.

The ever helpful Zamtoe, a fixture for years in Temple Operations, meditated with a pleasant inviting smile, an expression the exact opposite of Minee's. Just in case someone needed to come to him about a problem with the plumbing or a malfunctioning holo-projector in a conference room he did not want anyone to be afraid of disturbing him. His comlink was always on.

Poor Enling was too young to have a style yet. Like Obi-Wan, he tried to imitate his own Master, but he had outgrown that. His attempt at a pleasant expression caused other people to move away in worry. Fortunately, the other members of the group had their eyes closed.

A long silence that would have unnerved any sociable creature within a few minutes commenced. It ponderously continued . . . . and continued . . . . and continued . . . . and continued . . . . and continued . . . . until the bump of the artificial gravity faintly jolted the room as the ship exited hyperspace into Molek Minor's space. Qui-Gon and Boraku immediately rose and helped themselves to the suite's two refreshers. The others waited for their turn.

By the time they were all finished, the Republic dignitaries were filing out of the ship and the six robed and hooded Jedi rejoined them. The Molek Minor officials greeted them at the landing ramp, a formal greeting for the various Senators, retired politicians and judges. The Jedi silently mixed in with them, with the huge bulk of Enling at the rear of the group.

Luxurious transports flew them all over a flat, planar city toward reddish brown hills in the distance and the Citadel of Pourish-Tow where the funeral rites were to be held. Their transports flew into an open hangar carved into one flat vertical cliff. Other transports arrived as well.

The Coruscant dignitaries disembarked and their group reformed with the Jedi somewhere in the middle. Because they were from the capital planet of the Republic they were met by high ranking Learned Ones. And a band. It wasn't a very good band. A droid with recorded music would have looked and sounded better. The Learned Ones of Pourish-Tow worshiped knowledge, so they were blessed with the certainty that they could do anything well. Many practitioners of the arts had hard evidence that this was not true.

The politicians smiled through the bad music and a few tone-deaf ones even feigned enjoyment. They were all battle-scarred politicos from years of rallies, bad food, bad speeches, bad music, demanding supporters, sector fairs and loony constituents who commed them about everything from the slow space lanes to why their darling pets were being discriminated against because they weren't allowed on the upper walkways of the cities (an ordnance demanded by the residence of the lower walkways who complained about the sometimes unusual and unpleasant precipitation from above). the Learned Ones' poor presentation hardly registered to most of them.

After the formalities, the group moved on through ancient columned hallways. The Jedi formed their own brown clump in the middle.

Being his first mission and also being able to see over the heads of everyone around him, Enling looked about curiously under the enormous hood of his robe. The Citadel of Pourish-Tow was similar to the Jedi Temple and Enling felt a bit disappointed that they had come all this way to end up in a place that looked so much like where they had left. But the vastness of the hallways was still reassuring since they made him feel less huge.

There was music ahead. Decent music, not the kind produced by persons with only a theoretical knowledge of sound in general.

The group emerged from the hallway into a cavernous room, ceiling high above and crowded floor down below. A colorful and well dressed rabble milled about over most of the patterned floor and in the middle of room, a raised platform behind it, rose a many tiered bier on top of which the body of Salabatio Onn lay in state.

**- - - End Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**DEAD ONN**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 2**

A heavily robed person with a large pink head, a tall staff and immense lung capacity bellowed the announcement of their group, which was the names of the senior Senators from Coruscant 'and party'. They descended a grand stairway and were politely herded into what was apparently the receiving line.

At the head of the line, Grand Learned Foshuda had his best manners on display. Though he had caught little sleep in the past three days since Salabatio Onn's body had been found under a pedestrian bridge, he had hit his second wind in this marathon. All he had to do now was last through the actual funeral rites. And hopefully survive them.

"It is such a terrible loss to your world." Senator Lazzo of the Erzin Confederation was the eighty-second person to utter those exact same words. It had been a very long receiving line. But according to his assistant at his elbow, the Coruscant delegation was the last important one.

Somewhat overfed and grossly overdressed, the Galactic Senate contingent filed past at a respectably slow pace, their mumbled condolences bouncing off of Foshuda's equally insincere acceptances.

Grand Learned Foshuda's face froze into a rictus of grinning formality at the sight of the first underdressed person from the Coruscant group.

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, tall and stately and simple, bowed, as was the Jedi custom. Behind him, his shorter apprentice did the same. Master Qui-Gon spoke for both of them, saying something about how pleased he was to see him again, even if it was for such an unfortunate circumstance. Foshuda did not really pay attention to the words. Qui-Gon Jinn had the skill of making even the most cliched condolences sound genuine, but the Jedi's sincerity was lost on Foshuda, who mouthed his usual acceptances.

Grand Learned Foshuda was not happy to see them.

Less than two galactic standard years ago Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi had resurrected the Citadel's once most promising and wayward student. Before then there had been only Foshuda and his assistant, Mo'Usha, and a few others to covertly support, pity and scorn Salabatio Onn throughout his extended decline. Foshuda might have been angry or terse with these two Knights for what they had done, but his brain cells were still floating on a three-day exhaustion; he did not have enough energy for it.

Jinn and Kenobi shuffled on with the rest of the line and three more Jedi followed them, the ones who had been there at the height of Onn's powers, when he was young and strong and quick witted and could stop a war armed only with his words. Foshuda had not seen Zamtoe, Minee and Boraku since then and the years showed on the Jedi.

Boraku's wrinkles had nearly taken over her stone gray face, Zamtoe looked a bit fatter and Minee's glossy brown hair had gone completely gray making her calm self control look metallic and severe. Foshuda had to admit his own nearly white hair was quite a bit thinner. But they all looked considerably better than Onn (even Boraku) and not just because Onn was dead and laid out for his funeral rites above them.

Even though his excesses had not in the end been what had killed him, Onn's lifelong habits had worn him down to a pathetic creature of the streets. Even at his prime, they were the reason for his expulsion from the Citadel of Pourish-Tow. But back then fame and youth were a license to be indulgent and stupid. And that fame especially had kept Onn perpetually on the verge of being forgiven and taken back into the ranks of the Learned (at least among the ranks of the non-Learned and other rabble). Those annoying calls for un-merited forgiveness had thankfully faded with time as Onn's supporters deserted him, or were driven away. At least until Jinn and Kenobi had excavated Onn from his vices long enough to revive them. So, for the past two years Foshuda had been turning aside calls for Onn's reinstatement as a Learned, and even more demands that the Citadel at least take him in, so he wouldn't be living on the streets as a beggar. Foshuda had privately retorted that if Onn's admirers couldn't stand to have him their abodes then the Citadel shouldn't be required to either.

Forshuda bowed respectfully back to the three Jedi from Onn's earlier times. He had no ill will toward them (other than that they were Jedi) and his own distant memories of them were mostly pleasant. He then looked up at the towering 'young one' who had accompanied the hairless and blue Master Zamtoe and felt thankful that the Jedi student was sworn to peace, such as it was with the Jedi. Then his eyes caught a glimpse of silver under that enormous brown robe. Alarmed he signaled for his assistant.

"I said there were to be NO WEAPONS allowed," he hissed to Mo'Usha, a tall middle aged woman with auburn hair and crisp blue robes. "Those Jedi are armed." Mo'Usha nodded and hurried off to find the event director.

"The Grand Inquisitor Fenin and party," his prompter whispered and Foshuda resumed his receiving and dispensing of more formal greetings. The line was nearly gone before Mo'Usha returned with two functionaries from the city.

Weapons had always been forbidden in the Citadel, but people did not go to the great Citadel of Learning and Knowledge for a rumble anyway. The light trickle of scholars, students, officials and their guests that they always got was obliged to declare their intentions to be utterly peaceful before entering and that had always worked fine for them. But the funeral rites were simply too large for the Citadel's scholars and droids to handle and they had relied on the planetary government for help.

"Of course we didn't take their lightsabers away from them," replied a thin woman with twisted horns on her head. "Even asking would have been an insult. Besides, they're Jedi, they're just ceremonial anyway. And we scanned for blasters and explosives. What else could there be?"

"What else could there be?" Foshuda repeated, astonished at the woman's lack of imagination about what could be used to do harm by motivated enemies.

"And who else did you not want to insult?" the Grand Learned demanded. "There are enough people here who hate each other without letting them bring in weapons, too!" His prompter nudged him and after dismissing the incompetent woman he replaced his false smile to take care of the rest of the arrivals. But his brain furiously replayed the tedious receiving line he had just endured, trying to remember anything that might have been concealing a weapon. Walking sticks, headdresses, big obnoxious jewelry, belts. There were plenty of deadly implements that did not go zap or boom.

The line of dignitaries finally ended, relieving Foshuda of that duty. Any late comers would have to settle for the formal greetings of an under-deputy Senior Learned.

Foshuda forlornly wandered toward the bier and the raised platform next to it. Mo'Usha loyally followed. Even dead, Foshuda thought despairingly, he could not manage Salabatio Onn.

People around him recognized his rank and formal white robes and stepped aside for him, which normally made Foshuda happy, but he was glum beyond the pleasures of rank and authority.

The enormous bier rose over the heads of the mourners. The scents of hundreds of thousands of blossoms in the traditional colors of white and green and purple thickened the air around it. And on the top, in the orange robes of a his highest legitimately obtained rank, a senior Initiate Learned, lay the last remains of Salabatio Onn.

The undertakers had moaned and groaned loudly to the Citadel Learned Assembly about the condition of the body and claimed that it could not be made suitable for public display, but the Assembly had been firm. People from all over the galaxy would be attending; they needed a body and Onn's head was intact and passable. Everything else could be filled in and covered up by robes and flowers. Foshuda speculated that, except for being dead, Onn was in the best shape he had been in years.

The Grand Learned wearily climbed the stairs up to the platform one end of the bier. The other Learned Council members were already there, a cluster of bright white robes and long faces. Still breathing a little hard from the climb, Foshuda scanned the whole hall, the largest in the Citadel.

Amidst the sea of dignitaries, he tried to spot the local ones, where the trouble would start when the true circumstances of Onn's death were revealed during the rites. In his mind, he imagined a vengeful chieftain and former pal of Onn's thrusting a hidden vibro-shiv into the gut of a political opponent who also counted Onn as a brother (though one who had worn out his welcome years ago). Then the deputies and underlings of each one diving at their enemies, spilling blood. And the contagion of violence would spread throughout the room with shoving and fights, then hurled weapons and more stabbings. The persons who had genuinely come to mourn would want to sensibly flee, but they would non-sensibly panic and cause more chaos. Perhaps someone might have smuggled in a bomb as well.

Foshuda's eyes came to rest on the body below, the head of it pointed away from him.

A technician respectfully tapped him on the shoulder and the Grand Learned allowed himself to be fitted with a voice enhancer. Other technicians fitted the Learneds of Voice with their enhancers. They were going to chant and sing. If Foshuda could have stopped them he would have, since they were long on theory and low on talent and the worst choir to blight the Citadel in two-hundred years. But some traditions were inevitable.

All around the bier and raised platform, the crowd of milling dignitaries rumbled like a storm gathering strength to break.

Below, in their own little group on an upper level of the room above most of the crowd, the Jedi sensed the growing tension. Being mystically connected to all the life in the universe, the Jedi were well aware of the discord amidst the other guests around them. The Force also allowed Jedi to sense harmony around them as well, but discord always screamed louder for attention.

Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi also had the advantage of having spent many unpleasant hours with Molek Minor's more combative leaders on their mission to this world two years ago, so they had a fair notion of where the rumblings in the Force-ether were coming from. They pointed out some of the significant players to their companions.

Mikos Tom, the building guild-master stood with her pack of burly guild-mates.

Sub-Commander Yukom and her comrades stuck together as well. Yukom had been a officer in the system defense forces during the near war that Salabatio Onn had driven into a still-birth. And though she had retired from service many years ago and was a city vermin exterminator, she still liked to use her title.

The Clospie family and their supporters mingled with their blue-robed allies, the Society of The Most Righteous.

Oris Biley, who was apparently nothing more than a professional loud-mouth, kept close to a group of transport builders, glumock wrangers and droid merchants.

The Civic Droid Maintenance Union glared at a nearby clutch of Pipe Fabricators Assembly members.

There were little islands of restrained hostility scattered amidst the inter-galactic dignitaries and glistening droids carrying serving trays of non-intoxicating drinks in flimsy plastoid containers and elegant but soft and non-threatening refreshments.

The disturbance in the Force grew with the mutual hatred and animosity among the mourners. Each of the Jedi had their own way of sensing it.

To Qui-Gon Jinn, it felt like anticipation of something bad coming, like a pressure change in his sinuses, or the onset of a virulent argument spoiling a peaceful family dinner.

Obi-Wan Kenobi also felt a similar foreboding of badness since he very deliberately emulated his Master. But for him it was suffused with an aura of impatient moodiness.

Master Minee's nose twitched, as if the Force had become a bad smell and she kept looking about for the source.

Master Boraku's whole body twitched since Force disturbances to him felt like itchiness with no place to scratch.

Force disturbances always gave Master Zamtoe's intense foreboding, a queasiness that usually accompanied the imminent onset of serious public embarrassment.

Next to him, Enling felt like everyone was looking at him. He wasn't sure if this was because of the four twitchy Jedi Masters and one senior Padawan around him or the fact that everyone in the room around them hated their neighbors. And everyone kept looking up at him.

**- - - End Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**DEAD ONN**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 3**

A long, off-key keening drew the attention of the crowd to the funeral bier. At first a low noise, it rose in volume jerkily, the chanters reaching the climax of the opening rites in their own tine. Standing before them, Grand Learned Foshuda winced.

"My fellow sentients," his low tones filled the great hall and stifled the mutterings of the mourners. "We have come to honor the great. . . . the wise. . . . Salabatio Onn." Foshuda had practiced diligently to get 'wise' and 'Salabatio Onn' into the same sentence and felt pleased that he had gotten it out, like passing a digestive discomfort.

The chanting started.

Foshuda closed his eyes. To the audience it might have appeared to be in meditation, but it was really pain. The Grand Learned was at least confident that most of the off-world dignitaries, unfamiliar with the proper rites of the dead, would not know how bad the chanting was.

"The body dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies. . . . .dies. . . . dies. . . . dies. . . . .dies."

"The cities crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . crumble. . . . "

"Worlds die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . die. . . . diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Foshuda often wondered if the persons who had written the death rites were not craving death themselves. He, himself, was contemplating his own, because when the chanting climaxed, he would initiate the sharing of the death of Salabatio Onn.

"But knowledge lives on. . . . on. . . . .on . . . . on . . . .on . . . .on . . . .on . . . .on. . . . on. . . . .on . . . . on . . . .on . . . .on . . . .on . . . .on. . . . on. . . . .on . . . . on . . . .on . . . .on . . . .on . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . oooonn . . . . on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on. . . . . . . .ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnn."

All the chanters paused and, as one, gasped for their next breath to continue their pseudo echo. Foshuda could not hold back a visible cringe. Even the off-worlders could see that this was being badly done. And, of course, all the locals already knew. Would the horrible chanting enrage them further?

"On-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on. . . . .oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. On-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on. . . . .ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. On-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on. . . . .oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. On-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on-on. . . . .oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn."

This part had been deliberately enhanced by the choral director in his own homage to Salabatio Onn, but it was just an enhanced exploration of the flavors of bad to Foshuda and probably to much of the audience as well. He managed to hold back his wince for the next group grasp from the chanters before they kept going. With each 'ooooonnnn' the tone bifurcated until it was a loud discordant noise that spanned frequencies from belches to shrieks. Done correctly, the death chant was awesome, transporting the assembled mourners to the contemplation between life and death. Done badly, it was just a lot of noise. Noise louder than a eighty speeder crash and only half as pleasant.

Heart now pounding in his chest, Foshuda spread his arms to draw the attention of the crowd.

"We will all follow our Learned Initiate Onn. We have shared his life. Now we share his death. So we may _know_."

The Grand Learned stepped back. He heard the loud click of the massive holo-com. The projection of the security record that had captured Salabatio Onn's last moments began. A record that had remained in the hands of the authorities, unseen by anyone but those who had locked up the surviving culprits. And Grand Learned Foshuda and his senior staff.

"Death, death, death, death, death, death. . . . .death. . . . .death. . . . .death. . . . death. . . . .death. . . . .death. . . . .death. . . . death. . . . .death. . . . .death. . . . .death. . . . death. Weeeeeeeeeee. . . . . shaaaaaaaaaaallllllll knoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwww. Know. . . .know. . . .know. . . .we. . . .shall . . . . know. . . oh. . .oh. . .oh. . . oh. . .oh. . .oh. . . oh. . .oh. . .oh. . . oh. . .oh. . .oh. . . oh. . .oh. . .oh. . . . . . .OOOHHHHH."

The chanters ended the multi-part harmonies that was far beyond their expertise, the words crashing together in spectacular dis-harmony.

Above the flowery bier, Salabatio Onn staggered forward, reborn, huge and larger than life in transparent blue-toned holo-form. The many, many, many eyes of the crowd below followed him.

Onn stopped, swaying. Then he patted himself before his hands found the ragged opening from which he extracted a flattened drinking container. After gulping down its contents he tossed it aside, belched and froze, head high, apparently hearing something not picked up by the security holo.

Foshuda now realized what a tragic mistake he had made to withhold the security holo of Onn's death until now, when tradition mandated its viewing. If he had allowed it to be released immediately after the death announcement, then the inevitable factional warfare could have broken out in the streets where it belonged instead of within the hallowed halls of the great Citadel.

The holo of Onn shook its head, dismissing whatever had his attention and fumbled through his clothes; he had apparently already forgotten that he had discarded his emptied container.

Clenching his teeth, Foshuda recalled the old anger that had been buried under the funeral frenzy of the past few days. The disgust that had smoldered in him for years.

_What a waste._

Shortly after his triumphant return to public life and the Jedi who had done their damage had left, Onn had sat in his private office (the first time he had been allowed within the walls of the Citadel in years and Foshuda had him watched and escorted for every step of that visit and had him searched for stolen valuable when he left) and sworn off his misdeeds, his drunkenness, his public intoxication.

Of course, Foshuda hd not believed a word of it. His history with Salabatio Onn, since they were young Initiate Learneds together, was too long. But Foshuda remembered what it was like to believe him What it was like to _want_ to believe that this fantastically talented scholar would emerge from his indulgent ways. Or maybe just try being sober at least as often as he wasn't.

The holo-Salabatio whirled. A burly figure materialized, standing head and shoulders over Onn. It, apparently a male with flattened snout and small eyes, grunted.

"Aaaaaah, fellow creature of these crawl-ways of civilization!" Onn swayed theatrically. He certainly looked intoxicated, but he always did. He could consume a great volume of quasi-poisonous, recreational substances with modest effect. Sober was a rare condition for him.

The burly male advanced cautiously and from his expression, did not care for what he smelled. Onn patted his tattered robes again and the male followed the gesture with greedy eyes.

"You got load?" he grunted.

"Aaaaaaah, were I so fortunate I would have retired to my rest under yon bridge. The mind is a restless thing that needs the soothing caress of bliss." Onn spread one arm outward, striking a pose before letting it drop. "Does it not?"

The male scrunched his face up as if the question was another bad smell. He looked like the type of person who did not manage well with multi-syllable words. This did not deter Onn who babbled on in erudite tones.

Foshuda felt his old anger boil up in him in single word sentences.

_What. A. Waste._

Even staggeringly drunk, Onn was erudite and clever, but still completely unrehearsed. Onn was naturally witty in a way that 99.9% of the population fantasized about being at parties. Impressing and overwhelming people far more attractive than they were. Onn pleased his audiences like a skilled improvisational actor who never needed a script.

And the performance playing out in holographic blues was totally wasted on a dim-witted street thug scratching his backside while he watched the eccentric, ragged vagabond bemoan his sorry fate.

A rumble rose up from the assembly below the funeral bier. Foshuda surmised that some people had recognized the thug as the miscreant nephew of the head of the Pipe Fabricators Assembly, which had strong connections to the Sub-Level Builder's League, which had significant patronage of several political parties who were perpetually bitter enemies with most of the other political parties on Molik Minor. The muttering in the room remained constant, but moved around to the various factions like a virus.

Lowering his head in faux mourning, Foshuda hid his outrage as the holo-Salabatio crooned about what he might have been had he only had the discipline to tame his appetites. But after years of repetition even Onn's theatrical skill could not stir any sympathy from a Grand Learned who had heard his declarations to 'throw off the chains of my vices' too many times.

Onn crooned a tragic ode. He had a marvelous singing voice, deep and rich and full. The kind of voice that could fill a room with emotion. It flowed over the notes of a song effortlessly; years of recreational fumes and smoke had only deepened and enriched it. Foshuda's eyes strayed toward his pathetic choir. Bad as they were, at least they showed up for practices, instead of languishing in a jail after spitting on a city patrol, or too stuporous with drink to do more than crawl on the floor..

Even though he'd seen the holo several times, Foshuda started when the speeder swoop whizzed overhead, forcing Onn and the street thug to duck. The sound of the swoop whined into the distance before returning. The whole room gasped.

"Hugark!"

Another thug, bigger that the first and slightly more intelligent looking entered the holo-picture. The hazy shadows of two more bulky bodies larked at the edge of the image volume.

The noise of recognition rose from the floor below the funeral bier. The newcomer in the holo was frequently employed as a body guard to a city councilman and he still wore a drape with the city colors and emblem on it over his chest armor. According to the police report that Foshuda had read, he had just gotten off work.

Dumb as he looked, Hugark had superior reflexes; he whirled and fired.

The bodyguard was equally skilled and resourceful. He grabbed Salabatio Onn, forcing the skinny scholar's body between him and his enemy. Even the best body armor wouldn't deflect a blaster bolt at such close range.

"Release me y - aaaaauuugggghhhhh!!!" Onn's last note of outrage gurgled away as the energy blast struck his unprotected body and exploded. He uttered a long gasp of total surprise before crumbling to the ground, his chest a smoking, blasted, bloody ruin.

The two bulky beings stared down at the sudden innocent and very dead bystander between them before Hugark returned to what little sense he had.

"Kill you, Veescho! Swore it to you last time. Got no - - -"

But Veeshco had his own weapon out and fired. It hit Hagark in the forehead, ending whatever blood feud was between the two muscle-brained thugs.

The sound on the holo-recording faded down. The image froze on Onn's lifeless body, highlighted and enlarged. Since Onn had fallen on his injures, most of the gore was covered up, but there was still plenty of splatter around the body. Foshuda kept his eyes on that haggard face, aged years before his time by a lifetime of excess.

Shouts erupted from the floor of the hall. Cries of outrage. Accusations.

"If the City Guards killed our most - - -"

"It wasn't one of our guards! It was one of those hirelings! They're barely more than criminals - - -"

"I knew that one! He was part of your Guild! They took Hugark's money and then they told his family that he was too stupid to - - - "

Foshuda's eyes opened when he suddenly heard the loud and very distinctive thumping of bodies hitting the floor. The emerging sounds of hostility stopped as everyone's attention sought out the source of the sound.

**- - - End Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**DEAD ONN**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 4**

The massive Jedi young one stood over a guild master and city councillor, both knocked down to the ground and still clutching heavy and edged implements that had been concealed in their clothing, 'just in case.'

Enling stared uncertainly down at the smaller beings at his feet. He had acted on impulse with the Force, the way he had been trained to do as a Jedi apprentice. Enling did not mind those quick jolts of instinct, guiding him to act. He trusted the Force. He just wished he could clearly perceive what he should do next after that first burst of activity.

Sensing his Padawan's distress, Master Zamtoe took a position behind Enling, unclipped his saber and stared down at the hostile, but still surprised crowd. His rare display of intimidation had some weight since he was standing a few stairs above them, almost shoulder-level with his apprentice. Zamtoe activated his saber.

Higher up on the stairs the other Jedi struck their own poses, green and blue lightabers hissing and snapping on.

Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi took their usual fighting stances, back to back, standing highest in the group on the steps. The only thing they lacked was a breeze to blow their robes back dramatically and a swell of background music.

Master Minee had been sternly intimidating whole classrooms of younglings for many years. This mob did not strike her as being much different and her imperious glare let them know that along with the deadly energy weapon held before her.

Even mild-mannered Zamtoe and wrinkled Boraku knew how to look like they meant business. An essential part of Jedi training included instruction and critique on how to make being a Jedi look good. While the Jedi Order would vigorously deny any obvious vanity component in this, the sound practical reason for it was as basic as non-sentients posturing and puffing themselves up over territory. If you looked big and bad enough, you had a good chance at avoiding a fight altogether.

Belatedly, Enling drew his own lightsaber. Unfortunately, the engineering limits of lightsabers did not allow for the weapon to be scaled up to his size (as an adult, he would have wielded a saber blade as wide as a male human's thigh and longer than many Jedi were tall). So, even though Enling had a blade longer than any of his elders, the weapon looked more like a light 'knife' than a saber in his enormous fist.

The room collectively gasped at this magnificent display. The group-think among the mourners reconsidered its anticipation of a long overdue brawl. . . .

. . . for about four seconds.

"Who do they think they are?" and "It's not their fight," grumbled through the locals while the off-planet attendees, seeing an opportunity, began discreetly moving toward the exits. The consensus among the would-be antagonists was that they were quite willing to fight the outsiders for their right to fight amongst themselves.

Above the funeral bier, Grand Learned Foshuda's already overworked outrage renewed. Even at his most dissipated low, Salabatio Onn had never, ever wavered from the learned path of non-violence. It was true that he wielded words like weapons, often very unwisely, but he never stuck another being in any way, never handled a weapon.

For days Forshuda had fatalistically accepted the violence that Onn's funeral rites would touch off. But now that it was upon him, the prospect seemed completely unacceptable. Onn's adherence to non-violence was the one discipline that Onn had maintained, even in his most drug-induced stupor. It was simply too cruel that his life should be memorialized with a riot. And quite a lot of damage to the Citadel of Pourish-Tow as well.

For one crazed and sleep-derived moment, Foshuda imagined himself leaping down to stand proudly over Onn's remains. . . .

. . . .and breaking his leg in the fall. Even as a younger man, he could not have managed it.

But he still had the vocal enhancer.

"What is this?! VIOLENCE?!!" he demanded as he passed by the petrified chorus and his shocked assistant and descended the stairs.

"Is this what we have become?? Is this all we ARE??

"Haven't you got any better??"

Every eye in the room followed him as he mounted the bier, standing at Onn's dead feet that poked out of the mounds of flowers.

"We ARE what we DO. Are we DESTROYERS??"

"Of our HOMEWORLD?"

"Of our CITIES?"

"Of our LIVES?"

"Of our CHILDREN'S lives?"

The words flowed out of Foshuda as if they had been held inside for years and could no longer wait to get out. In a way they had.

Grand Learned Foshuda had memorized them years ago. They were now memorized by all Initiate Learneds at the Citadel as part of the standard curriculum. They were Salabatio Onn's. They were the speech that he had given years ago that had stopped a war. But this was no simple school recitation. Foshuda imbued these words with all his anguish, anger and frustration. With the dignitaries, with the last few days, with all the annoyances of directing the Citadel and dealing with guilds and city governments and petty elites. But most of all with Salabatio Onn for leaving such a colossal mess at the end of a potentially stellar life that he had recklessly plowed into ruin.

The anguish and envy of one frustrated scholar was far less noble than the principles of non-violence that had driven Salabatio Onn's original speech. But they were still spoken with passion and the room responded to it.

Three old Jedi Masters, their group no longer the center of attention, practically swelled with the memory of that glorious event when they were all young and vital Jedi Knights and stood before Salabatio Onn to defend him. It did not matter that Onn had savaged them later for displaying their lightsabers; the moment of that speech had been golden. And now it had returned.

Minee, Boraku and Zamtoe moved forward together, drawn to Foshuda's passion like plants to sunlight, their sabers easily clearing a path through the crowd. Startled by his Master, Enling followed as if tethered. Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi lingered only for a moment to exchange mystified looks before bringing up the rear of the group.

Minee reached the base of the bier first and sprang up onto the highest tier below Onn's body. Boraku and Zamtoe landed lightly beside her and they flourished their lightsabers together. It was a dramatic and eye-catching gesture, but useless since none of the guests below had any energy weapons to shoot at them with. But it was also no less ineffective than it had been when they defended Salabatio Onn. Armies had been pointing laser cannons at them. Even lightsabers guided by the Force couldn't stop cannon blasts. But Onn's speech had. In the end, the Jedi had just been a colorful and dramatic afterthought that looked good in the holos.

Qui-Gon Jinn mounted the tier under Boraku, Minee and Zamtoe and he smiled at Obi-Wan and Enlings' obvious confusion as they took positions at his side and below him. He understood the feelings radiating down through the Force from the three older Jedi. The two apprentices had no way to truly appreciate what it felt like when the Force flowed with the life and vigor of long past youth.

"End this!!!" Foshuda exhorted, his arms raised. He scowled down at the scene-stealing posturing of the Jedi below him. One did not create peace with laser sticks. But he had also reached an impasse. Up until now, Onn's speech had been general enough to fit the setting of the funeral. But the next line was, "Bring down your war ships!!"

In that old confrontation, the transmission of Onn's speech had prompted captains of the war ships who had children ready to do battle on the planet below to give up their positions. When the combatants saw them descending through the clouds to land, whole armies had deserted their positions and the war had been stopped before it could begin. But there were no war ships in the hall now.

Foshuda needed to improvise.

"Lay down your weapons!!" Foshuda called out and then glared furiously at the six lightsabers glowing below him. "Lay. Down. Your. WEAPONS!!!"

The young human Jedi actually started and looked up at him from near the bottom of the group, but the older female seemed to finally understand. She whirled around, her long gray braid swishing through the air. Her bright saber blade vanished and she tossed the silver and black hilt up to land amidst the flowers at Onn's head. It sank into them and vanished with a muffled thump.

The bald, blue Jedi and the ancient wrinkled one did the same.

Enling looked up at his Master (who was for once standing on top of something high enough to be above Enling's eye level) with admiration. He had never seen his polite and proper Master behave so. . . . heroically. Like Knights were supposed to be. At that moment young Enling wanted to be like Master Zamtoe more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life. His lightsaber joined the others with the same Force-aided throwing precision that Jedi developed in early childhood (the one thing that prevented Jedi younglings from covertly throwing offensive wads at their crechmates in class was the fact that their teachers' aim was always better than theirs). Displaced white and purple flowers dribbled off the side of the bier.

Qui-Gon Jinn gave one last swish with his green saber blade, flicked it off and tossed up with the others. He then raised his eyebrows at his own apprentice. Obi-Wan Kenobi recognized the significance of the gesture, but he still had the strong feeling that his elders were sharing some moment that had completely gone past him. His saber landed with the others, vanishing into the flowers.

Qui-Gon Jinn turned back to the crowd, folded his arms into the wide sleeves of his robe and lifted his chin to the rabble. The other Jedi did the same. And for the first time, Enling managed to emulate his Master. A few people nearest to the Jedi stepped back.

A long, empty pause followed.

Clink!

A metal bar hit the side of the bier. It was tossed by an elderly woman who had actually come to grieve for Salabatio Onn. It had been many years since she was merely middle-aged and the wayward scholar had looked very nice on her arm and in her bed and Onn's considerable vices were exotic and exciting and hardly made a dent in her considerable fortune. But she remembered Onn with passion and his passing was final confirmation that she was old after all. Tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks as she gazed upward.

Her children, grand-children, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren took the hint from the family matriarch that they expected to inherit from someday. Sticks and sharp implements and chains clattered against the flower-decked bier, doing considerable damage to the blossomy display.

The air filled with flying implements of violence, heavy objects and refreshments hurled by the few who hadn't planned on pummeling anything that day.

Directly in the line of fire, the Jedi all dove downward and covered their heads. A few people, their violent impulses now frustrated by the overwhelming peer pressure around them, took direct aim at the Knights while they could and a few objects and squishy desserts connected.

Waves of mourners moved forward, shouting, "Peace, peace, peace!!" Objects rained down on the bier, decimating the flowers, covering the body with sticks and fist-weights, whips and slicing cables. And when they ran out of those, they threw other things. Boots, hats, cheap jewelry, some underclothes.

Foshuda slowly lowered his arms and the hurled offerings slowed and then stopped.

"Now! We celebrate the LIFE of Salabatio Onn!!" he finished, returning to the funeral rites.

An uncomfortable silence followed until Foshuda's glare prompted the chorus about their missed cue.

"LLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! Life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life. . . .life!!!!

"Living. . . . .LIFE!!! Living, living, life. Live. Life. Live. Life. Live life. Live life. Live life. Live life. Live life. Live life. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelife. Livelifelivelifelivelifelivelifelivelifelivelife. LIVE. LIVE. LIVE LLIIIIIIIIFFFFFFEEEE!!!!

Foshuda sighed. And relaxed for the first time in days. Salabatio Onn was gone. No more late night coms, baling him out of jail, cleaning him up, giving him money.

He had buried Salabatio Onn with his own words.

And the sound of the cheering in the room almost drowned out the cacophony of the chorus, too.

**- - - End Part 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**DEAD ONN**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 5**

"He was disgusting!" Obi-Wan Kenobi exclaimed, exasperated with the unquestioning adulation that Zamtoe, Minee and Boraku spoke of Salabatio Onn with. "Masters, I accept that he did brilliant things. But he smelled bad, was constantly intoxicated, and he peed on my boots."

"He peed on my boots, too," Boraku admitted.

Five average sized Jedi sheltered by the base of the funeral bier with Enling's bulk and six huge arms serving as a protective wall from the revelry around them. Occasionally a shoe or cup or fashionable accessory would fall in their midst and they would toss it back out again.

"And those clubs he and his cohorts went to were quite disturbing," Zamtoe added his own less-flattering remembrance of Onn.

"He _was_ disgusting," Minee agreed with Obi-Wan. "Even back then when he was at least physically attractive, when he could strip in public and get some admiring looks from members of his own species. But that was mostly youth. He reveled in his invincibility with the most poisonous substances. Not an ability that improves with age."

Obi-Wan stared at them, astonished. Zamtoe, Boraku and Minee had only spoken of Onn in the most admiring ways.

"You think we didn't notice that Salabatio Onn could be a walking pile of forshup droppings, youngling?" Boraku asked, her eyes glinting amidst her gray wrinkles.

Obi-Wan refrained from saying anything about the 'youngling' remark.

"I have only heard you speaking about Onn's accomplishments. I was not sure that you were aware of his. . . .failings."

"Aah! How could anyone not notice?" Minee scoffed and tossed a long damp article of clothing that had landed on her knee back out to splat on the floor behind her. "He drank three wim-beers with breakfast, sampled other people's medications for amusement, without asking permission, and he would inhale anything."

"But, but why would anyone wish to be with someone like that?" Obi-Wan asked. A small, cool soft something bounced off his head, but he ignored it.

"Because he loved living so much. And he made other people feel the same way, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon answered with a smile. "He made people laugh, he entertained them and he enjoyed everything he did, with his whole being. And that is very attractive. I know you sensed it."

Obi-Wan nodded reluctantly. When he wasn't insulting or cursing them, Onn had been a popular comrade to of the streets, the dingy cantinas and living blocks of the nearby city. He seemed to have a fantastic ability to sympathize with their lives, almost as if he were clan mates. They had laughed at Onn's stories and cheerfully given him handouts. Onn had been a natural performer, living in the moment of his actions with complete sincerity, though Obi-Wan had not found much of his humor very funny. Gossipy tales of anatomical incompatibility and rude hand gestures were not to his taste.

"It wasn't his inspiring oratory that allowed Salabatio Onn to stop a war, though it certainly helped," Boraku said. "He knew all the antagonists and commanders in the conflict. Through his intellect and connections to the Citadel, he knew them. He dined with them, sponged off of their generosity, got completely pissed with them, had sex with them and their families. When Salabatio Onn spoke, they listened because they knew him and he knew them. And their vices."

Obi-Wan well remembered the prefects, commissioners and officials who had cringed in horror when Onn jumped onto the negotiating table two years ago, his trembling finger pointing at each one as he eloquently hinted at what he knew about each of them. Qui-Gon had tried to stop him, but Onn had oiled his limbs earlier for a body weaving game with two stout Humans and a tall thin Quertminati. Qui-Gon, his hands covered with globby, golden grease had been unable to catch himself and had fallen crashing into a table of refreshments. Onn had later bemoaned the loss of so many fine liquids and semi-solids and had tried to lick off some of the excess still clinging to the hood of Qui-Gon's robe.

Obi-Wan found himself staring at his Master who gave him a knowing half-smirk.

"I understand what his talents were," Obi-Wan admitted, "but they were overwhelmed and wasted by his own vices. Even you tired of them," he reminded Qui-Gon, who casually batted away a damp sock that came flying down toward his head. Obi-Wan smirked as he remembered the wide-eyed and completely shocked look on Qui-Gon's face back then when Onn had butted his head into his back and the undignified tussle over the stained robe that Onn finally won.

"His abundant vices were always made so much more unappealing by his constant declarations that he was going to give them up," Minee commented with disgust.

"But he always meant it, with every molecule of his being, whenever he said it," Boraku reminded.

"Until the next time he found another drink, or pill or drugstick in his hand," Minee sniffed.

"He was a being of the moment. To great excess," Zamtoe agreed.

Qui-Gon Jinn sighed, agreeing as well. He looked upward. "The singing has stopped. I believe the Grand Learned is leaving. I suppose the ceremony is over." He lifted his hand and closed his eyes. A lightsaber flew up from the top of the bier, dislodging other things on top of it. It spun end over end before dropping down into his waiting palm.

"Do you think we should make our way back to the transport?" Minee asked, retrieving her own saber.

"We should wait for this mob to thin out a bit," Boraku said, her saber landing in her waiting palm.

Obi-Wan and Zamtoe retrieved theirs at the same time. He knew he had the wrong one as soon as Obi-Wan's hand closed over Zamtoe's hilt. Zamtoe's cheeks blued with embarrassment before the two switched sabers. Boraku laughed, Minee rolled her eyes and Qui-Gon gave Obi-Wan a full smirk.

Enling tentatively reached out his middle right hand.

"Don't strain for it, Enling," Zamtoe instructed his apprentice. Enling nodded, biting his wide lower lip. His large saber hilt came flying down at them and the young Padawan snatched it with his upper left hand before it could crash down into his Master, who warmly congratulated his apprentice.

"I think we might make our exit now," Minee declared, standing a little stiffly. Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan and Enling stood as well while Zamtoe helped Boraku to her feet.

The immense hall looked cavernous without the crowd, the remains of which was now clumped around the exits. Obi-Wan looked upward, surprised to see Onn's flower and weapon covered body alone and neglected on its bier. Usually funeral rites followed through to the final disposal of the remains until it was interred, sealed-up, burned, spaced or plunged into a suitable ocean. But apparently on this world, after the death was shared, the body was just an afterthought. A bored looking technician driving a huge droid lifter rumbled up to the bier with raised grabbing arms, a final mechanical homage to the dead.

Obi-Wan turned away from it and went with the others to pick their way though the litter and garbage on the floor, back up the wide stairway to the main entrance.

Enling dutifully brought up the rear of the group and looked about.

Enling saw the heads and headdresses of the other dignitaries from Coruscant bobbing up ahead amidst the crowd. Above and around them, the Citadel looked just a bit more exotic and unusual. And below, the round blue top of his Master's head looked a bit more heroic as he gazed fondly down on his mentor.

It had been a very fine mission. Enling's first mission.

They reached the landing platform amidst a clutter of dignitaries and murmured talk.

"Ho! You Jedi!" A portly Senator waddled there way. Qui-Gon and Minee went to him and after a moment returned.

"Well, what is it?" Boraku demanded.

"The real memorial to Salabatio Onn is about to commence," Qui-Gon answered in a pained voice. Minee looked very put upon.

The Jedi waited in their own brown cluster near their fellow Coruscanti who became more animated and less diplomatic than when they had arrived. Transports came and went and when their turn finally came all the visitors from Coruscant boarded and were whisked away, not back to the spaceport, but into the city.

Leaning toward his comrades, Zamtoe fretted to his fellow Masters. They were all seated together in the very back of the transport and conveniently ignored by the other passengers who eagerly talked amongst themselves.

"I cannot take young Enling there. I just can't. It's just too much."

"He is of age," Minee reassured him. "And just the front room might not be so bad. I don't think it will have anything he hasn't already been told about."

"It's his first mission, but this is a bit more of an education than I intended," Zamtoe moaned.

"Then it's past time for a visit like this," Boraku added.

"And he can hear us, Zamtoe. He's blushing," Qui-Gon pointed out, his dark blue eyes amused.

Zamtoe looked up at his enormous Padawan whose head was shyly lowered.

"You do know why I'm concerned, Enling," he implored over Obi-Wan Kenobi's head.

"Yes, Master," Enling replied. "I will cover my eyes and not listen, if you wish."

"Oh, that is very considerate of you to offer to, Padawan. But Jedi just don't do that kind of thing. We shall discuss everything when we return to the Temple." Enling nodded back gravely to his Master's instruction.

They remained silent for the rest of the trip into the city. A silent brown cloud that rode along with the Senators, staff, executives and other Coruscanti notables. When the transport swooped down into the city to disgorge its passengers, the brown cloud followed in their wake, past the glittering door droids and into the dark but still garish interior of one of the city's most notorious, but still upscale nightclubs.

The brown cloud moved among the tables and patrons, finally stopping at a spacious corner booth, whose occupants suddenly felt the need to move elsewhere. The brown cloud installed itself there and ordered drinks from the waiter droid.

Master Minee looked about with interest. The front room of the club was frankly respectable, far different from the palace of indugences that Salabatio Onn had dragged her, Zamtoe, Boraku and the small entourage that followed him around during the boisterous peace celebrations that broke out immediately after the planet's non-war. Onn easily commanded the crowd. She had declined his invitation to sit on his lap, but there had been other volunteers for that. And later he had cornered her with a proposition of sex that was so elegant and witty that she had briefly considered it. But by then he was too intoxicated to be very attractive anymore and she never had been the exhibitionist that Onn was. So, a pretty and more daring woman had joined Onn with the two other couples on the raised platform in the midst of the party while others cheered and waited their turn.

The bar they sat in now looked very respectable though there were obvious portals leading to back rooms and dance halls that maintained this establishment's infamous reputation. Minee closed her eyes briefly. She could feel it in the Force, that unrestrained pleasure that Onn gave himself over to so freely and that she knew she was incapable of. Opening her eyes, she saw several of the Coruscant mourners disappearing into those back rooms. She smiled. At least some of their party would mourn Onn in a style he would appreciate.

"Wish you'd taken Onn's offers, Minee?" Boraku asked, leaning close and obviously reading her thoughts.

She smiled. "Not anymore than you," she answered. Onn had flirted with all of them.

The droid returned with their drinks and she waited until the machine had left before answering.

"I have never had Onn's impulses any more than you or Zamtoe have," Minee continued. "But he enjoyed them so much and indulged them so well, you could not help feeling it." She sipped her non-intoxicating fruity drink, the same type that everyone else had. The Jedi would be Jedi.

"I am strangely pleased that he seemed to enjoy his last moments, and that his end did come because of a failing body as one might have expected given his habits," Boraku said over her drink. Her small eyes looked toward Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi. "How badly had he deteriorated? He certainly seemed to have maintained his intellect in the holo."

"While I sensed his intellect when we first met, and he proved useful to our mission before we discovered who he was, he was difficult to be with," Qui-Gon admitted, sipping his drink after removing the colorful garnish stick from it.

"Ha!" Boraku laughed. "From that sour expression on your Padawan's face, I would say Onn was more than difficult. He was merely considered eccentric and daring when we knew him, with many well connected patrons who intended to get him reinstated in the Citadel. Even Foshuda was one of Onn's best admirers."

"There was so much despair and anger in Foshuda when we met before the ceremony," Zamtoe offered. "I was heartened to see him expel it so well during the rites."

"Onn won't be haunting him at all," Boraku agreed. "Anymore.

"But tell us," Minee asked, "you obviously saw the worst of him as well as some of his best. What had he become?"

Boraku and her two peers listened while Qui-Gon Jinn and his Padawan described the once well kept scholar's robes gone to rags and grime, the thin hair, the missing teeth, the smelly feet, excessive body odor and indiscriminate urinations, though Boraku explained that this last habit was already well entrenched when they knew him.

"He certainly had no rich or well-connected patrons by the time we met him," Qui-Gon sighed. "Other than his vices, one of his greatest pleasures was in challenging people with his behavior. He reveled in it. He was certainly creative in his insults and indiscriminate in his actions. But I think there might have been a bit of madness in him as well, after so many years of abusing himself."

The Jedi sat together, with Enling, Zamtoe, Minee and Boraku mostly listening to stories of Onn from Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. Defecating in a cup and offering it to the cook at a restaurant; all three of them were all thrown out. Waking Obi-Wan Kenobi up in the middle of the night and begging to shave the Padawan's legs; Kenobi sat on him until Onn subsided into a more suitable drugged slumber. Serenading fellow passengers on a public transport; some of them were charmed, but others pushed money at Onn to get rid of him and he bought them lunch along with a fresh supply of drugsticks for himself. Telling people that Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan were his 'escort'; this cover story had actually been useful for their mission, but it put them in the position of being the butt of most of Onn's jokes. The one about the long-eared Tyaimuk musician with baggy pants had made Qui-Gon laugh which still mystified Obi-Wan.

The evening wore on. The brown cloud of Jedi sobriety in their corner of the room attracted other members of the Coruscanti group. They populated the tables nearby, staff members responsible for getting their bosses home, a few others who hated their superiors and would not socialize with them for any reason, older dignitaries for whom a warm body-fitting sleep couch and regular digestion were the most important pleasures in life, and younger ones with more academic tastes in their pleasures.

The evening grew so late that it finally shifted into early morning before the last Courscanti finally stumbled out of the back rooms, what clothes he was still wearing hastily draped over his body. He happily passed out at the feet of his distressed assistant. The Jedi stood. The head bar droid took last call for drinks.

Qui-Gon Jinn saw the pained look on his Padawan's face as the slight young aide begged for help with her semi-coherent Senator.

"You are displeased, Obi-Wan," he said. They moved to either side the Senator, each took an arm and levered her up to her feet while the aide lavished them with praise and hastened to clear the way for them. Nearby, Zamtoe directed his large and many-armed Padawan to carry two people while he and Minee assisted two others. Elderly Boraku watched, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkled a bit more with amusement.

"I suppose this is a fitting way of honoring Salabatio Onn," Obi-Wan admitted and then grimaced at the antiseptic fumes of the Senator's sodden jacket. "But I am very sure, Master, that this is not _my_ way."

Qui-Gon nodded and smiled.

"When I am gone, remember me fondly with a drink, or whatever your favorite poison is, my dear beings," he quoted.

"Ha! Onn said that to us, too," Boraku smiled and shook her head.

"Then I suppose we did not honor Salabatio Onn very well tonight," Zamtoe said a little sadly, a bleary eyed Twi'lek hanging off one of his broad shoulders.

"Of course we did," Qui-Gon said. He waited until all his fellow Jedi were looking at him, even Enling who easily hoisted two people, their toes dangling just above the ground.

"We very properly and sincerely honored his absence."

A few heads turned with surprised expressions when they heard the silent and grim Jedi laughing. They hastened their steps out of the bar. The woman between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan began to mumble and drool and the others around them stumbled and bumped into them as they exited into the early morning air.

Their large transport was waiting, it's motor humming. They clambered aboard, the sleeping and semi-conscious persons were poured into seats and the Jedi resumed their places in the back. The transport took off for the spaceport.

****** END ******

(This story was first posted on tf.n: 2-Mar-2008)

**Disclaimer:** All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.


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